


King and Kin

by Zimra



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Family Drama, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-04-18
Updated: 2013-04-18
Packaged: 2017-12-08 21:26:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,166
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/766192
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Zimra/pseuds/Zimra
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Orodreth has always sided with his father. Now, as Finarfin prepares to abandon the Flight of the Noldor, his youngest son has a choice to make.</p>
            </blockquote>





	King and Kin

**Author's Note:**

> “Finarfin spoke softly, as was his wont, and sought to calm the Noldor, persuading them to pause and ponder ere deeds were done that could not be undone; and Orodreth, alone of all his sons, spoke in like manner.” - The Silmarillion, Of the Flight of the Noldor

He awoke choking back a scream. Trapped in stifling darkness, he looked around wildly, desperate to see where he was but afraid of what he might find. As his eyes adjusted, he saw that there was nothing but the tent and Findaráto, asleep and still but for his quiet breathing. 

Artaresto kicked off his blankets and crawled out of the tent. He stopped just outside the entrance, still on his hands and knees, trembling and gulping down deep breaths of the cold northern air. The sweat that had been pouring down his face a moment ago cooled quickly, and soon he was shivering. 

Having no desire to return to the stifling tent, he sat upon the barren ground of the shore and stared up at the starry sky. How long had they walked north before stopping here in the cold wastes of Araman? It seemed as though only a few days had gone by since his father’s host had arrived in Aqualondë just in time to witness the aftermath of the attack. The memory was still raw and throbbing, like a fresh burn.

And how much time had had passed since the Valar’s shadowy messenger had brought their voyage to a screeching halt? Even his fierce uncle had been forced to disembark his ships and wait, despite his bold defiance in the face of their doom. How long had Artaresto sat in this camp and listened to his father and Nolofinwë argue for hours at a time, unable to figure out what they were saying from the few words he had been able to catch? How many nights (or rather, times he had attempted sleep; without the Trees, no one could really tell day from night anymore) of nightmares, of waking up with his body drenched in sweat and a scream in his throat?

_He and his sister walk along the beach on a clear summer day, carrying their sandals so that they can feel the warm sand between their toes. Artanis grabs his hand and marches purposefully up to one of the food stalls, and he trails after her as he always does. The young woman behind the counter has darker hair than most Lindar, but she speaks in the unmistakable, soothing tongue of their mother’s people._

_“Hello there. I don’t recall seeing either of you here before.”_

_Artanis is her usual authoritative self. “We’re from Tirion, but we’re here visiting our grandfather. I’m Artanis, and this is Artaresto. He’s shy.”_

_The girl smiles at them, and asks, “What can I get for you today?”_

_The same beach, the very one he explored with his sister when they were children, is stained with blood. Artanis is there too, facing away from him and staring out at the remains of a battle._

_As he surveys the awful scene, he recognizes her, though she is older now; the woman who smiled as she sold warm bread to two golden-haired children on the waterfront lies very still upon the sand. A man in the simple garb of a fisherman kneels beside her, stroking her hair as he ignores the blood that pours from a wound in his leg._

_And farther along the beach that is now strewn with bodies, he can see hundreds of faces, strange and familiar, Noldor and Lindar. And Artanis turns to him with blood on her sword and murder in her eyes and says, “They did this.”_

_He opens his mouth to scream, but no sound comes out._

Artaresto did not know how long he had sat there shivering, staring into the bleak nothingness of the sky, when he heard footsteps behind him. He turned in time to see Angaráto approaching him, fully dressed and awake. Artaresto wasn’t sure he had actually ever seen his brother sleep in the tent that he shared with Aikanáro - since the halt, he had spent most of his time wandering the camp in some futile attempt to curb his restless anger.

Angaráto looked grim, but that was nothing out of the ordinary these days. Even in the best of times he had never exactly been cheerful, and Aikanáro had often teased him for his lack of humor. Yet some of the light had gone out of his brother’s eyes; he seemed to have lost the wicked gleam of sarcasm that was only visible to those who knew him well, and the gentle glow of kindness buried even deeper.

“Where’s Findaráto?” he asked without preamble. 

Artaresto pointed at the tent. “Still asleep,” he muttered, his quiet voice concealing the still-fresh turmoil of the nightmare. 

“Why aren’t you?” his brother asked, a flicker of concern disturbing his hardened face.

“I am not tired,” Artaresto lied, drawing his knees up to his chest and wrapping his arms around them in an attempt to stop shivering. 

The disapproving look Angaráto gave him was uncalled for, especially coming from someone who had not slept in days. Artaresto averted his eyes and stared back up at the sky, until his brother made an impatient sound and roughly pushed aside the doorway of the tent.

“Fin?” He could hear Angaráto’s harsh whisper even from outside. “Sorry to wake you, but it’s important.” 

A rustle of fabric combined with a confused moan told him that Findaráto had indeed woken. “What’s going on? Have they...has Father...”

“Fëanáro is coming,” Angaráto said. 

He heard Findaráto curse softly. “When?”

“Soon. He sent a messenger to inform us.” Angaráto’s tone betrayed his scorn for their uncle’s insistence on such formalities, even though their camps were practically overlapping. It all seemed rather hollow to Artaresto as well; it was not as if they were still at court in Tirion.

Of course, there was more at stake now than there had ever been in Tirion. 

Hearing more noise from the tent behind him, Artaresto turned to see Angaráto emerging. Findaráto followed close behind, pulling on his boots and attempting to tidy his sleep-mussed hair. In his haste he almost tripped over his youngest brother, and looked surprised to see him sitting outside the tent.

“Resto? Are you alright?” he asked.

“Fine,” Artaresto muttered, standing up and wincing as his cramped muscles protested against the sudden movement. Findaráto knew about the nightmares; he was more sensitive to the minds of others than any of the rest of them, save Artanis, and he had shared living quarters with Artaresto for weeks. But Angaráto did not know, and Artaresto did not feel like discussing it with him at the moment. 

“You should get dressed,” Angaráto told him. “Nolofinwë wants all of us to be there.” He glared back in the direction of their uncle’s tent. The look was probably not meant for Nolofinwë, as the two of them got along very well, but lately Angaráto had taken to projecting his general dissatisfaction with the world onto everyone around him. 

“We’ll wait for you,” said Findaráto. Artaresto nodded and ducked back into the tent.

It took him longer to get dressed than it should have, for his hands seemed clumsy and his mind kept drifting away from his task. When he finally rejoined his brothers, Angaráto wore an impatient scowl, and Findaráto kept glancing nervously over his shoulder at the rest of the camp. Without another word, the three of them headed towards the others.

Fëanáro and his sons were still absent, but the rest of their family had gathered in a rough half-circle in front of Nolofinwë’s tent, facing the open space in the center of camp. Artaresto wasted no time in finding his father, who stood beside Nolofinwë. He looked tired, but calm, and he smiled when he saw the rest of his sons approaching him.

“Good, you’re all here,” he said. “Thank you for fetching them, Angaráto.” Angaráto nodded and went to stand with Aikanáro, who looked a little bleary-eyed, as though he, like Findaráto, had just woken up. Findekáno and Irissë stood near him, both staring in the direction of Fëanáro’s camp. Irissë was scowling, while Findekáno just looked miserable. Artaresto found it difficult to look at his cousin without seeing him at Aqualondë, blood-spattered and horrified as he realized the exact nature of the battle that he had interrupted. On Nolofinwë’s other side, Turukáno and Elenwë conversed in urgent whispers. Itaril was nowhere to be seen; they must have left their young daughter asleep in their tent. 

Artanis stood a little apart from the rest, watching them with an unreadable expression. When Artaresto stepped into the space between her and his father, she smiled and embraced him. She was almost taller than him, he noted with some annoyance. He always managed to forget that until she was standing right beside him.

“When is he expected?” Artaresto asked quietly, looking from his sister to his father.

“Soon,” Arafinwë said mildly. His face betrayed no emotion, though Artaresto knew it was there. He had seen his father’s grief after Aqualondë, and the desperate shame at their kin’s actions that came later had been even more painful to watch. He offered no further details about Fëanáro’s arrival. 

Others had begun to gather outside of the circle, hanging back among the first rows of tents and watching the royal family wait. Artaresto could hear occasional whispers from the bystanders, though all talking ceased once they saw Fëanáro and his sons approaching. 

The eight of them formed a half-circle on the other side of the open space, with Fëanáro standing in the approximate center, facing Nolofinwë. The ends of the two lines kept a little distance between each other, as though an invisible line had been drawn through the middle of the circle. 

They were all armed, and Fëanáro was clad in full battle gear, missing only his helmet. His face bore a very familiar expression of pride mixed with mild irritation. Without the armor, he might have been attending an ordinary family gathering in Tirion. _As though nothing has changed._ Artaresto wondered how long the facade would hold; his uncle was not exactly known for his restraint.

It was strange seeing his half-cousins again, people who had grown up alongside him and his brothers and who he had taken great pains to avoid during the journey. It had been fairly easy; he was not close with any of them, not the way Findekáno and Irissë were, and he had never gone looking for a fight out of sheer frustration, the way Turukáno and Aikanáro occasionally did. He had not even taken it upon himself to mediate such arguments, leaving that to his father and Nolofinwë. He thought he could safely claim that he had not spoken a word to any of Fëanáro’s sons since the oath, when he and his father had counseled deliberation in the face of open revolt.

But now, seeing the variety and character of their expressions, Artaresto almost wished he knew what had been said among the seven brothers and their father during the long march. Maitimo, standing on Fëanáro’s left, was trying to appear proud and composed despite his weariness. Beside him, Makalaurë looked tense, like a harp string about to snap. Pityafinwë and Telufinwë stood together, of course, and the older twin seemed to be hovering nervously over the younger, who looked listless and very pale. Curufinwë stood at his father’s right, perfectly still and stony-faced. Tyelkormo fidgeted beside him, his expression shifting from angry to perturbed and back again in a matter of moments. Carnistir wore his usual stubborn scowl, but something almost like discomfort lurked behind his dark eyes.

From his place in the circle between Curufinwë and Maitimo, Fëanáro addressed his assembled family. “Kinsmen. I have not come to inquire as to the nature of this delay, but to inform you that it must end. I trust that you have mastered whatever doubts your people had after hearing the Valar’s message, and that your host will be prepared to depart on my orders.” His tone was brusque and did not invite argument. 

Like his brothers and cousins, Artaresto looked at Nolofinwë, expecting him to reply on behalf of the combined hosts of the Sons of Indis. But to his surprise, it was Arafinwë who responded, stepping forward into the center of the circle and facing his half-brother.

“You are capable of compassion, Fëanáro,” Arafinwë said, his voice cool and conversational. “But you seem to have such a talent for suppressing it that your capacity hardly matters. Time and again, your actions towards me, my family, and all those who would not bend thoughtlessly to your will have demonstrated that you are selfish at your very core.” He spoke so calmly that it almost did not sound like a grave insult. Almost.

Utter silence greeted his words. A ripple of shock passed over Fëanáro’s face, quickly changing to fury. He opened his mouth to speak, but Arafinwë did not give him the chance. 

“But after what happened at Aqualondë, when you robbed and killed the innocent, you crossed from mere selfishness into cruelty. I have given this matter a great deal of thought, and I cannot continue to support you in any way after what you have done. I am leaving, Fëanáro.”

Artaresto felt as if someone had hit him hard in the chest. He heard a stifled gasp from somewhere in the circle, though he could not tell who it was. Arafinwë didn’t move. 

A cruel smile touched the corners of Fëanáro’s lips. “I would be lying, Ingalaurë, if I said I was surprised. You have always lacked Father’s conviction.” Out of the corner of his eye, Artaresto saw Nolofinwë wince ever so slightly at the use of Arafinwë’s mother name. Only Indis called him “Ingalaurë,” and never in public.

If hearing the name bothered Arafinwë, he did not show it. “I should kill you, Fëanáro,” he said, still with the same unwavering calm. “By rights I should drive a blade through your heart and avenge the deaths of my wife’s brother and his son.”

Several of Fëanáro’s sons tensed, and Curufinwë’s hand went to his sword hilt; even Artaresto’s normally cold cousin was unable to hide his alarm at what was almost an open threat. Though he knew that there was no rational reason for his cousins to fear Arafinwë, who stood unarmed and vulnerable before them, something in his father’s voice and bearing spoke of steel. 

Fear mounted in Artaresto, and he felt sick at the thought of what would happen if his father tried to act on his words. He wouldn’t, would he? Not Arafinwë, gentle and wise, who almost never raised his voice to anyone, who had taught his children that just because others were angry - or cruel - did not mean _you_ should be. 

But at a certain point, words like “angry” and “cruel” ceased to matter, and bearing the actions of others in silence was no longer enough. Artanis had recognized that at Aqualondë.

Fëanáro drew his sword and stepped forward, bringing himself within a foot of his youngest brother. His armor glowed dully, and he seemed to tower over Arafinwë, who stared back at him without blinking. Artaresto felt Artanis clutch his arm, her fingers digging deep enough to hurt. One look at her face told him that if this ended badly, there would be hell to pay. 

The tense silence seemed to last for an eternity, but at long last Fëanáro shrugged, utterly careless in his scorn. “If you turn back, I will not stop you,” he said, “nor anyone who wishes to join you.” His voice rose as he addressed the assembled elves, filled with that unhinged yet mesmerizing conviction that made Artaresto’s skin crawl. “Let the cowards flee! The ships will be lighter for it, and our passage more swift.”

He stepped back and looked around the circle, eyes resting upon each of them in turn. “Well? Who among you would follow Arafinwë back to the fair city of Tirion and the _justice_ of the Valar?” He drew out the final words in a voice smooth as silk yet unbearably harsh.

No one moved. Nolofinwë’s face was set, but he looked somehow fragile, as though the slightest movement would shatter him. Turukáno stood with his hand on his father’s shoulder, eyes blazing, visibly shaking with anger. Findekáno’s gaze darted back and forth, looking everywhere but at his father and uncles and determinedly avoiding Maitimo’s attempts to catch his eye. Irissë glared at the ground with her arms tightly crossed, her face as white as her dress. Elenwë stood between her husband and sister-in-law, her lips pressed into a thin, nervous line as she watched the scene unfold.

Artaresto couldn’t bear more than a quick glance at his brothers. Aikanáro’s jaw had dropped, and Angaráto looked as though he had been hit him over the head with something heavy, but neither of them so much as twitched. Findaráto’s hands shook slightly, but not with anger. He couldn’t see Artanis’ face, but her hand on his arm had gone slack. 

Suddenly it was Artaresto’s turn to be scrutinized. Fëanáro was looking directly at him, the full force of his burning gaze daring Artaresto to react. He flinched, feeling the heat of shame rise in his face. _Go to him_ , a voice inside him screamed. _Stand beside him as you once did. You have faced Fëanáro’s wrath together before, and you can do it again._

But he could not move his frozen limbs, could not cross the space to the center of the circle where his father stood. Even after his uncle smiled mockingly and turned away, Artaresto could only watch helplessly as Arafinwë turned to look at his children, examining each of their faces before turning back to Fëanáro, his expression one of weary resignation. 

“I will return to the south as soon as may be, and I hold you to your word that you will release from your service any who wish to accompany me.” 

“ _My_ word is good, I assure you.” 

“Then goodbye, brother. I will not say farewell. Though I do not take pleasure in your doom, the thought gives me little distress. I have too many others to mourn.” And without a bow or any gesture of respect, Arafinwë turned his back on the High King of the Noldor and left the circle, the gathered spectators parting before him as he returned to his tent. 

Fëanáro spoke then, drawing the attention of those present back to himself. “Any who wish to join Arafinwë must depart within the next twelve hours. For those who remain, we shall leave two days hence.” He turned and left, with the air of one dismissing others from his presence, and his sons followed.

The moment they were out of sight, Nolofinwë’s face seemed to crumple, and his posture sagged. If not for Turukáno’s strong hand on his shoulder, Artaresto feared his uncle might simply collapse.

“You knew, didn’t you?” he asked quietly. Turukáno and Findekáno stared at him, but Nolofinwë only nodded. 

“I’m sorry you had to find out this way, all of you.” Artaresto’s uncle addressed his brother’s children, looking from one stricken face to the next. “I don’t know if you know how stubborn your father can be, but...” he faltered, struggling to keep his composure. Artaresto hoped he did not look as alarmed as he felt; he had never seen his uncle in such a state, not even in the aftermath of Finwë’s death.

“Father,” Findekáno said urgently, placing a hand on Nolofinwë’s other shoulder. “How long has it been since you’ve slept?” And, casting a sympathetic look at his five cousins, he helped Turukáno lead their father back to his tent. 

~

“Well, Resto?”

The sharp voice behind him made him jump. He turned quickly, and gave an exasperated sigh when he saw who it was. “Artanis. Don’t sneak up on me like that.” 

She knelt beside him on the floor of the tent, watching as he resumed packing his few belongings. “You still have not decided.” It was not a question.

Artaresto glared at her. “I told you to stay out of my head, Artanis.” He had little aptitude for such things, but he knew that she usually kept her promise in this. His sister knew how important it was to him to have a private mind.

Artanis snorted, sounding for all the world like the rebellious child she had been not so very long ago. “I did not have to examine your mind, Resto. You’re moody and irritable, and when Aikanáro asked you whether or not you meant to stay, you brushed him off.” She laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “What do you wish to do?”

Artaresto stared at the floor of the tent for a long moment, his mind working furiously as he struggled to make sense of his jumbled thoughts. “How can I abandon Father?” he burst out, roughly brushing her hand away. “How can Findaráto? How can you and Angaráto and Aikanáro just let him walk away? Any of Fëanáro’s sons would die for him, kill for him!” He realized that he was yelling, though he hadn’t meant to and was not quite sure when it had happened.

Artanis was unfazed. “You do not want to compare Father to Fëanáro, or yourself to his sons,” she said dryly. “Father knows we must all make our own choices. He may not like it, but he will not hold it against us.” Her voice softened. “Findaráto stays because he feels that someone must look after our people, and because Turukáno will never turn back while his father goes on. Angaráto and Aikanáro will not leave him.”

“And you?” Artaresto asked, still a little belligerent.

“Fëanáro has not yet answered for his crimes,” she said, a dangerous edge to her voice. “I intend to make certain that he does. Besides, Findaráto will have need of my advice in the days to come.”

He gave her a suspicious look. “What are you trying to tell me, Artanis?

“Fin _needs_ your support, Resto,” she said, her voice low and urgent. “I know it doesn’t seem that way now, but he needs you more than Father does. Do you want him to have to face Fëanáro and his sons alone?”

“He does not _have_ to do anything!” Artaresto protested. “He could leave with Father!” But he knew deep down that Findaráto would not turn back, for exactly the reasons that Artanis had suggested.

“Have you spoken to Father about this?” Artanis asked.

“No. Have you?” He hated the thought of betraying his father to his face, but simply letting him walk away with no explanation was even worse. 

“Findaráto and I went to him. We told him our plans.” Her face seemed closed now, and he did not press her for details. “I don’t know whether Angaráto and Aikanáro did, but I know they are staying.” Suddenly she reached out and took both of Artaresto’s hands in her own. “Look. I don’t want to lose you, but I cannot choose for you. Talk to Father, and decide. But do it soon, or the chance to choose will be gone.”

She was right. She was always right. Artaresto nodded, and quietly resumed his packing, refusing to look up from his task until he knew his sister had gone.

~

The entrance of his father’s tent was tied back in a general invitation to enter. Word had spread like lighting through all the camps that Lord Arafinwë was turning back, and that any who wished to could declare their intent to join him. Until now, Artaresto had given the place as wide a berth as possible, not wishing to receive questions from his father’s supporters about what Arafinwë’s children thought - questions he might not be able to answer. 

For the moment, however, this part of camp was blessedly empty. Artaresto hovered silently outside the door for a few moments, hoping that his father would notice him, and at the same time praying to be overlooked. At last, Arafinwë glanced up from his own packing and noticed his son standing before him. His eyes widened and he stood up suddenly, but he looked more relieved than surprised. 

“Come in, Artaresto,” he said, beckoning him inside. Artaresto obeyed, and the moment he was through Arafinwë untied the bindings on the tent door and let it fall closed. “There. Now we won’t be disturbed.” He turned and embraced his son with unexpected fierceness. It took Artaresto a moment to regain his balance, but once he did, he returned his father’s hug with equal force. 

_Would that I were a child again and one embrace from Father could fix everything that was wrong with the world..._

Arafinwë released him and resumed his seat on the floor of the tent, gesturing for Artaresto to join him. “Sit down. I’m glad you’re here.”

Artaresto knelt beside his father, watching him and taking stock of his appearance. The long, golden hair that was Indis’ legacy, inherited by all of Arafinwë’s children, had been pulled hastily into a single braid. He wore simple clothes suited for traveling, the tunic cut in the Telerin style that he preferred, but made of thicker fabric for warmth. His blue eyes sparkled despite the dark, bruise-like circles that kept him from concealing his weariness. He looked exactly the way he always had, yet something about him seemed somehow diminished.

“What do you wish to speak to me about?” Arafinwë finally broke the silence, keeping his voice carefully neutral.

He knew what his father really wanted to know - _will any of my children follow me as they should?_ \- but he didn’t trust himself to answer that question yet. “Why did you keep this from us?” Artaresto asked, hating how childish his voice sounded. “I understand why you wanted to consult with Uncle, but why did you not warn us, at least?”

Arafinwë sighed heavily. “I had to make a decision, one I knew I would never be able to make with all five of you there offering opinions. Dealing with Nolofinwë was bad enough.” Despite his father’s affectionate tone, Artaresto knew he meant it; he had heard the hours of arguing that had resulted even when just his uncle was involved. 

“More than that,” Arafinwë went on, “I did not want to bind any of you to me.”

“But why not?” Artaresto cried. All of the turbulent emotions that had awakened during his conversation with Artanis crashed over him even more violently than before, and he had to fight to keep the tears from his eyes. “We are your children! Why should we not be bound to you? I have no wish to divide our family even further!”

“Our family was divided long before I made this choice, Artaresto. Your mother and your aunts would never have come with us, and your uncles and cousins and sister will never turn back. If you wish to return to Tirion with me, then I would welcome you with all my heart, but I will not demand anything from you.” 

Artaresto was quiet for a long time, unable to think of anything to say. “What will you do?” he finally asked. 

“I will submit myself to King Olwë and to the Valar. If they see fit to punish me, I will accept their judgement. I have done nothing that makes me deserving of a pardon, nor do I expect to receive one.” 

“And if they do not punish you?” Artaresto said stubbornly.

“Then I will aid my mother in her distress, and I will lead what remains of our people in my father’s absence, and I will beg your mother for forgiveness.” His voice broke slightly on the last words. 

There was nothing Artaresto could say to that, so instead he gave voice to something else that had been bothering him. “Why did you say those things to Uncle Fëanáro? Not the part about leaving, the rest of it. It’s not that I don’t think he deserved it, but you know angering him will only make things more difficult for Nolofinwë.” _And for us. Though perhaps you did not expect to leave us behind to face him._

Arafinwë grimaced. “That was ill-done, and I regret speaking so plainly to him. The only explanation I can give you is that I lost my temper. I know it is no real excuse, but I cannot take back my words. I wish there was something I could do to keep anyone else from getting hurt, but I fear it is far too late for that.” He finished packing his bag, closed it, and set it aside. “Your brothers and your sister have all told me that they mean to continue on,” he said. “What do you intend to do?”

Artareso found himself unable to look his father in the eyes. “I will follow Findaráto,” he whispered. “I cannot abandon him. And Artanis...” He shrugged helplessly.

“Of course.” A reminiscent, almost dreamy look came over Arafinwë’s face. “You two always were inseparable when you were young.”

Artaresto suddenly felt trapped, suffocating in this tiny tent with only his father and his own betrayal for company. He could bear it no longer. “I - I have to go. I need to find Fin, and tell him...” he trailed off again, cursing his own sudden inability to finish a sentence.

His father nodded. “Go, then. I trust you will join the others to bid me farewell when I depart?” His voice held no warmth now, only the polite formality that he frequently used as a refuge from stronger emotions.

“I will.” Artaresto stood and bowed to his father before backing out of the tent.

~

Though a number of the Noldor chose to return to Tirion with Arafinwë, not one member of his family was among them. They all turned out to watch him go: Artaresto and his brothers and Artanis at the front, Nolofinwë looking solemn and unshakable again beside them, and Fëanáro standing back, surveying all before him with a cold stare. 

Arafinwë’s final farewells were brief and hurried. Everyone who cared for him had already said a longer, more personal goodbye away from the prying eyes of their king. He embraced his brother and his children, exchanged a few words with Findekáno, Turukáno, Irissë, and Elenwë, and picked up Itaril for the last time. Then he simply turned away and followed his people. He had sent the host before him, supervising their departure and making sure that Fëanáro kept his word. 

Artaresto stepped forward, unable to bear leaving anything unsaid. He could not calm his racing heart, so he took a deep breath and tried to ignore it.

“Arafinwë Noldoran,” he managed to choke out. His father stopped and looked back, surprised. Artaresto could tell that everyone was staring, could feel Fëanáro’s eyes burning into him as he knelt on the cold ground and said, “I am your devoted son.”

His father did not smile, but his face was filled with warmth as he nodded his thanks. “I know.”


End file.
